


you are seventeen and you know these things

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, POV Second Person, brief mentions of abuse, niall's name isn't said once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:14:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are seventeen and you know what a soliloquy and McCarthyism is. You know that Romeo and Juliet is probably one of your favorite things ever written and you know that you're a good swimmer. You know that your sister hasn't called home in months and you know that your mom and dad don't really sleep in the same room anymore. You’re seventeen and you know that you have three friends, one is Liam and the other is Louis and the other is Zayn. And you understand that they love you.</p>
<p>You also understand that a boy who looks at you in disgust after his buddies find you guys kissing in a closet isn't in love with you and if he is, he doesn't know how to go about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are seventeen and you know these things

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys this honestly just came to me! So I'm trying out a different POV, it's second person soooo yeah and Niall's name isn't mentioned once in this but it's pretty obvious who he is lol.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing

You watch his car pull out of the parking space next to your mother’s red Impala and you wonder where he’s going and you hope that wherever it is he’ll come back to you always. You’re only seventeen and you’re naïve and you always expect people to come back just like the waves you had seen when you went to Nantucket for the summer, they always came back no matter how far they went. But you have to learn to stop comparing people to the ocean, no matter how blue their eyes are or how many times you feel like you’re going to drown just by being next to them because people drift and drift and sometimes you can never get them back and the ocean isn’t like that.

The ocean allows you to miss it just enough that your heart seems to yearn and call for it but then it’s there again and you have to wonder if it was ever gone in the first place. But people, people can ruin you because they leave with a kiss on the forehead and they whisper “babe” onto your lips and then they just…don’t return because they are _not_ the ocean but you don’t quite know that. You’re seventeen and you’re naïve and you don’t know these things yet.

~~

School is where you try your hardest not to watch him but apparently your hardest isn’t good enough because your eyes always stray to where he’s at. His locker, or the lunchroom, or laughing with his friends and his head is always thrown back to show the white expanse of his neck when he laughs and it always carries over and collides with your eardrums and you want to keep it forever, lock it in a jar and open it up when it is just you alone. But when you do look at the white expense of his neck something else drops in the pit of your stomach, something horrible that is not love because you remember him whispering “no marks, we don’t want anybody to know.” And you wish that you had marked him anyway, wish that people could see the effect you have on him.

But you just tighten your grip on your notebooks and you turn the music in your iPod up louder and you try not to look at him and you ignore your friend Louis chattering next to you. And maybe you do feel bad for allowing this blonde boy with these freckles that you have to squint to see and who has the way of smiling at you like you’re the sun take up all your friendship time. But then you look at him again and he’s with that girl, Cher the pretty one who’s modeled in Japan or so you’ve heard and you can’t help but to look no matter how many times your brain tells you to stop.

Funny thing is he never catches your eye.

~~

Your mother says. “How are you?” And you pick at your spaghetti and you don’t answer her because you don’t hear her because you’re too busy thinking about his lips and his hands and how he holds you tight and how he laughs _and, and, and, and._ And your dad pounds on the table and you look up with wide eyes and your dad says.

“Your mother asked you a question, boy.” And you look at your mom.

“What?” You say and she looks sad and you wonder what you did and you think that maybe this pretty boy is taking up too much of your time. But then you remember driving around in his car in the middle of the night with nothing but the starless sky and the fire under your skin and then you don’t feel as bad as you should.

“Harry, what’s up with you?” Your mom asks, all sad and guilt inducing. You notice that she has pretty eyes and she’s getting older and she has thin hair and then you do feel bad and you wish that you were a better son, that the pretty boy would stop taking all of you.

“Nothing, mom. I’m sorry.” You say and she sighs and then you look at your father who’s just looking at you weird. And you wish that Gemma, your sister was here because she always knew how to steer a conversation and she always talked about irrelevant things that somehow became relevant the more she talked about it. And then you start to miss her but when you try to think of her and how she used to tell jokes you only think of him and how he tells jokes. Obnoxious, and loud, and he reminds you of sadness. But you still love him anyways.

~~

Liam says that maybe you should get a hobby. “Should start swimming.” He says and at first you don’t think about it much, but then one day when the blonde boy with the braces is kissing you he whispers.

“You have nice legs. Would look good in a speedo.” And so on the last day of sign ups, you write your name big and proud on the sheet and you smile all the way to class. And Louis throws a pencil at you and demands to know what is up but you can’t tell him because it’s between you and the blonde boy.

So you’re sitting in the bleachers in blue speedos and you’re cold and your nipples are really hard and the coach is talking about respect and stuff like that but honestly it’s just swimming. And then you start thinking of the blonde boy and how he’s outside playing soccer and how he’s probably sweating and glowing like he always does and you think about how he’ll lift his shirt and reveal his stomach, the one that is firm under your touch and then you stop because you will not get a boner under your speedos. Nope.

Everybody takes turns swimming and you note that a lot of people are good but a lot aren’t and when it’s your turn you wonder if maybe you made a grave mistake, maybe looking good in speedos shouldn’t be a reason to humiliate yourself. But then the coach blows the whistle and then all you see is blue. And.

Well.

~~

Nights like this when the blonde boy climbs through the window with a black eye and a bruised lip you want to cry but all he wants to do is laugh. So you both sit on your bed with your legs crossed and you’ll play twenty one questions and he’ll ask you the most ridiculous things but you’ll be fine with it because you love to see him smile and you’ll always tell him to ‘shh’ because you don’t want your parents to know. And you never ask him questions about his bruises because you remember the first time you did and he had yelled and told you it was none of your business.

And then he had cried and you had decided that you never wanted him to cry because his face was made for laughter and smiles and it wasn’t the kind of smile that could cure cancer, no not to you. It was the kind of smile that had you waking up at five in the morning just to memorize the way it made his cheeks rise and fall and how it made his lips stretch over his white, white teeth. You think he’s so beautiful, it should be a sin.

~~

Truth is you’ve never been cool. Truth is you were always the weird kid with the headphones in and the too loud music but then in freshman year Liam Payne hit you with a football and offered to tutor you in math because Liam Payne was a genius. And then you guys kind of became best friends and then in sophomore year you met Louis Tomlinson, who was loud and outspoken and who gave people the wrong idea but was really one of the nicest people you had ever met.

And then you had two people to talk to and listen to and you liked them. And then Liam started dating a high school dropout named Zayn who worked at the tattoo shop downtown, and Zayn was hard and cold when you first met him but then he wasn’t.

And now you’re sitting in your room and you’re ugly crying with a runny nose and everything because the blonde boy with the 5 am smile and the white teeth covered in braces told the pretty girl, Cher that he loved her. But you know that he loves you and you wonder why he never says it. And Zayn cocks his head at you and says.

“You should never let anybody treat you like that, Haz.” And you say

“Like what? He treats me good.”

“He treats you like a doormat and you know you’re not.” Zayn says it soft and calming and you wonder what he knows; he didn’t even finish high school. And then you sigh because that’s your anger talking and you wonder about Zayn and you wonder if he had a blonde boy or another Liam long ago who broke his heart like the blonde boy is breaking yours so you ask him about it. And he doesn’t answer for a long time but he finally does.

“I had a blonde girl.”

“What was her name?”

“Perrie… no platypus jokes please.” You smile softly, even though your eyes feel puffy and you’re a little bit sleepy because you get like that after crying.

“Tell me about her.” You say and Zayn laughs, the kind of laugh that has a story behind it.

“She wasn’t a Liam Payne but she was something. Funniest girl I had ever met, she loved watching me get my tattoos… I loved listening to her; she had so much to say.”

“You loved her.” You mean it to come out like a question but it doesn’t. Zayn doesn’t say anything at first but then he nods and you try to imagine this Perrie in your mind but she’s faceless to you. Just a generic blonde girl, so you think of someone bubbly and nice and just sweet all over but you’re thinking of the blonde boy and you can’t have that because you’re trying not to think about him which is really hard because all you’ve ever done is think about him and you wish that your heart would stop going on tangents and loving people who can’t possibly love it back.  

“And I know you love him but you need to understand you deserve better.” Zayn says and then your mom is knocking on your door and telling you “lights out.” And Zayn ruffles your hair because he does that and he leaves and your mother leans on the doorway and she looks at you.

“Have you been crying?” She asks and you wipe your wet cheeks and you know it’s useless but you shake your head anyway because you don’t want your mother knowing that you’re allowing a boy to make you feel this way. And maybe you know deep inside that the blonde boy is being cruel but you love him so much and he reminds you of all the things you couldn’t say, all the things you bottle up inside and you think that maybe he’s your soul mate in a way that doesn’t really need kissing or touching.

“Oh, darling what’s the matter?” Your mom says and you think maybe everything is the matter. Maybe things like puppies being murdered are the matter or the fact that you haven’t talked to your sister is the matter but then you think what really is the matter? And you wonder why you cry so hard over a boy who won’t even glimpse at you in the hallway and then you cry harder.

And your mother hugs you and you wonder if she ever had her heart broken and she tells you that she loves you and you wonder if she would be proud of you if she found out why you are crying. And then you wonder what the blonde boy who plays soccer shirtless is doing, you wonder if he’s with the pretty girl and you wonder if they kiss each other like he kisses you. You wonder if he kisses her forehead when he’s leaving or if he squeezes her hips when they make out or if he calls her “gorgeous and beautiful and babe” like he does you and then you don’t want to think about it anymore.

And you’re crying harder and you wonder if the pretty girl knows that her boyfriend is kissing you in the middle of the night when she’s having dreams of him kissing her.

~~

You are seventeen and you don’t really understand long division but you think you understand love but you don’t, not really. You don’t understand that love has no distance but it is the depth that really matters, you don’t understand that love is tragic, or maybe you do and you choose to ignore it. You are seventeen and you are in love but you don’t know that sometimes people don’t love you back as much as you love them… or maybe you do but you don’t think about it when his lips are on yours. You are seventeen and you don’t understand that sometimes love is a trick of the light; something that you aren’t sure was there in the first place.

You are seventeen and you understand long division but you don’t understand love, not really.

~~

Thing is you’re really good at swimming. Maybe Liam taking you out on those long runs in the morning worked. Your coach says that you’re one of the best and you always feel nervous thinking that maybe you’ll mess up in blue speedos and embarrass yourself but you never do and you think it has something to do with the blue water. The color of his eyes. And he came to one of your swim meets once, you didn’t know it until you resurfaced and he was just smirking at you and the only thing you could see were his eyes.

~~

So you win the school a medal and Liam says. “Party for this guy at my house!” And you’re sure nobody will show even though Liam spent a lot of time on it but after you get dressed at your house and then go to Liam’s you realize that teenagers love free beer. And it’s weird because people keep congratulating you and stuff but the only reason you had joined was because the blonde boy said you would look good in a speedo.

And it makes you feel awkward, drinking when you aren’t even eighteen but Liam shoves a drink in your hand and he says to have fun so you sigh and you drink and you do try to have fun. You dance with this pretty girl named Jade who has blue hair but not like water blue or blonde boy’s eyes blue so it isn’t that appealing. And you take body shots off some girl and somewhere in the middle of the party the blonde boy shows up but he’s with the pretty girl, Cher and then your mind short circuits because he’s looking at you and he’s walking towards you and you think.

_Oh goodness, he’s going to kiss me._

But he doesn’t kiss you. He claps you on the shoulder like any friend would do, not like two people who have exchanged kisses and secrets in the middle of the night. “Good job, man. Was awesome. C’mon Cher.” And then he’s gone just like that in the blink of an eye and it happens so fast that you wonder if it actually did happen. And the pretty girl congratulates you too and you’re shocked that she even knows your name.

And you stand there with a bottle of Bud in your hand and you wonder if maybe your mind is making up drunken fantasies but his hand felt so real on your shoulder and when you turn your head he’s laughing with his buddies and drinking beer and he catches your eye. You almost panic but all he does is raise his left eyebrow in a silent question and you raise yours too. Not knowing what you’re doing.

You watch him say something to the pretty girl and she nods, and you watch him move fluidly up the stairs exchanging a look with you and then you follow just like a puppy. And your brain can’t quite catch up to what’s happening so you don’t know what you’re doing or what you’re even going to do when you find out what you’re doing. Your mind is fuzzy and you can still feel his hand on your shoulder.

_Good job, man. Good job, man._

You wonder if he even remembered your name.

~~

You are seventeen and you know what a soliloquy and McCarthyism is. You know that Romeo and Juliet is probably one of your favorite things ever written and you know that you’re a good swimmer. You know that your sister hasn’t called home in months and you know that your mom and dad don’t really sleep in the same room anymore. You’re seventeen and you know that you have three friends, one is Liam and the other is Louis and the other is Zayn. And you understand that they love you.

You also understand that a boy who looks at you in disgust after his buddies find you guys kissing in a closet isn’t in love with you and if he is, he doesn’t know how to go about it. “Fag.” He says and then he walks out and he explains to his friends what this fag was doing and then everybody knows that you’re a fag and you don’t know what to do about that.

You’re seventeen and you’re in love and you know that you shouldn’t compare people to the ocean, no matter how many similarities they have to it.

You’re seventeen you know these things now.

~~

“What’s wrong?” Your mom says and you don’t answer because you’re too busy thinking of ways to forget about the blonde boy and your dad hits the table and you look up with wide eyes.

“Your mom’s talking to you, boy.” And you look at your mom who has crow’s feet behind her pretty eyes and white streaks in the dark brown hair.

“What?” You ask and she sniffles.

“Have you been feeling okay?” And you think about the word fag and you think about closets and hands and boys with blue eyes and you think, _no. I have not been feeling okay, I have been feeling torn and used and broken. I have been feeling like an idiot and I don’t even know why I allowed this to go on for this long and I am so in love with him but he is so not in love with me. He is in love with himself. I have been feeling like a volcano that has been dormant for too long and I have been feeling useless and unremarkable and not beautiful because every word he used to say are lies._

_I do not feel wonderful and I do not feel lovely and if someone calls me babe I swear to god I am going to lose it._

“Babe, speak to me.” Your mom says and your eyes refocus on hers and you clench your fingers around the silver fork and you have the right mind to smash the plate and you say.

“I can’t.” But you don’t really say it you scream it and your dad tells you to lower you voice but you are sick of people telling you what to do! ‘Don’t leave marks, Harry. Don’t tell people what we do, Harry. Don’t say the ‘l’ word, Harry. Tell me you love me, Harry!”

And you are sick of being someone’s thing! You are sick of allowing that blonde boy to put all his washed up insecurities inside of you, thinking he can wring them out and come out clean and you are sick of being his thing on the side that he can’t even tell people about and you are sitting in your dining room with your parents and you are sick and tired of people telling you what to do and what to feel and you storm out of your house and you can hear your mom screaming. “Harry!” But you see you don’t even know who Harry even is anymore.

So you pull out your wallet and you stare at the boy in the license and you try your hardest to become him again, and you try your hardest to smile as hard as that boy is smiling and you remember Louis and Liam coming with you and you remember them making funny faces behind the guy and you remember things about the old Harry but you can’t be that boy anymore.

Because that boy was seventeen and naïve and you are no longer him.

And what tragedy, you think for something as wonderful and innocent as that to become something as broken and used as you. And you don’t drive anywhere you just sit in your car and you have yourself a good cry and your mother turns on the light on the front porch for you so you know you aren’t crying alone. And that just makes you cry harder.

~~

You are seventeen and you know that seventeen is the year where you’re supposed to make mistakes and be crazy, you are seventeen and you know how to not give a fuck courtesy of Zayn and you know how to piss people off enough they give you what you want courtesy of Louis and you know how to never give up courtesy of Liam.

You are seventeen and you know that when somebody writes “Fag” on your locker in shaving cream you should walk away and apply all the things you know how to do to yourself. But see, you are also seventeen and stupid and you feel alone and you are emotionally tired so you stare at your locker and then you punch it and you don’t even register you’re punching it until you are being told to _stop_ punching it and Liam’s trying to get you off of the locker and your knuckles feel broken and your pulse is sounding in your hands and you catch a glimpse of Niall. And he looks so passive and you just want to scream but you just allow Louis and Liam and a whole bunch of other people you don’t know to drag you away.

Where are they taking you?

~~

Your mother cries and your father screams and you’re happy nobody asks you what you were thinking because you have no goddamn idea.

~~

You are seventeen, almost eighteen with a now healed hand and a record and you know that lockers cost a lot of money to repair. You are seventeen, almost eighteen and you know that a boy who broke you and called you a fag shouldn’t be tapping on your window and demanding to come inside and you know that you shouldn’t let him in.

You are seventeen, almost eighteen and you know these things yet you open the window for him anyway and you allow him to tumble inside himself. You remember when you used to help him and you guys would stumble onto the bed together, giggling and trying to keep quiet and the memory hurts you but you steel your face. You do not need him to see you.

“What do you want?” You sound strong and you wonder where that came from.

“I messed up.” He says. And you say nothing because you don’t quite understand what he wants you to do for him, did he come to your room thinking you would forgive him? “I miss you.” He adds and you think that maybe he misses kissing you and making you feel like shit and knowing that he had someone that would always be there. Because goddamit he doesn’t have that anymore. “Say something.”

“Get out.” You say. You’re being unreasonable, you haven’t heard him out. But you are so sick of being reasonable and you are sick of being “good Harry, nice Harry.”

“I love you.” He says and you stop…and you think about all the times you had waited to hear him say that phrase. You thought about all the sleepless nights and all the ways you had imagined him doing it and some parts of your dream are true. Like him being in your bedroom but other than that nothing else is similar. In your dream you are smiling and you are happy and he is someone worth it, in your dreams he is everything but right then he is nothing and you do not hate him because you still love him but you wish that he would leave. You wish that he would undo his footsteps and never talk to you again and you say as much and he say. “I know.”

You say. “You don’t. You don’t know a thing. You don’t know how it feels to wait around for someone to love you and when they finally do it’s because they’re filled with so much guilt that they can’t help it, it’s probably not even real love. You don’t know a thing about wanting to undo things because you are you and I am me and we are nothing alike. You are selfish and maybe I am too, maybe I did want you all to myself but dammit it was because you belonged to me. You don’t know anything about having a breakdown in the middle of the whole school because the one you need doesn’t even want you! You don’t know so don’t say you know!” And you know you’re crying and you hate that you do it so easily these days and as this boy tries to step closer you scream for him to get out and it finally clicks in his head that you are serious.

That you might want him but dammit you don’t need him and you watch him leave out the window like he’s done so many times before.

~~

You are seventeen, almost eighteen and you listen as his car pulls out the driveway. And maybe somewhere deep down inside of you, you wish that he will come back to you. But you are seventeen, almost eighteen and you know that not most people do and you think maybe that’s the case with the blonde boy and braces. You are seventeen, almost eighteen and you know that humans are about seventy five percent water and that they might come back to you like the sun comes for the sky in the mornings but you also remember there is another twenty five percent.

You are seventeen, almost eighteen and you have stopped comparing people to the ocean. Because not all of them come back.  

**Author's Note:**

> Its one am in the morning and I do not have a life. Sorry.
> 
> Personal blog: http://waywardbadass.tumblr.com/
> 
> Fanfiction blog: http://itsallabout-thegay.tumblr.com/


End file.
